


Kiwi

by jarrahs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunk Hermione Granger, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, I swear there's a trace of plot, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Not Epilogue Compliant, Porn With Plot, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-14 17:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20604938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarrahs/pseuds/jarrahs
Summary: A witch and a runaway-groom walk into a bar. (Post-Hogwarts Dramione)





	1. Chapter 1

It was a miserable, drizzly evening and Hermione Granger was piss drunk. The Three Broomsticks was rammed tight and smoky. The air noisy with pockets of heat where people leaned into each other, yelling into ears, hands on arms or elbows or backs to get past. Hermione glanced up periodically from her small, rickety table tucked against the back wall. It had a dodgy leg that stood precariously on a box of matches, and her empty glasses looked slanted but that could have easily been her vision, now. She squinted at them. Bubbles of foam slid sluggishly to the base.

The waitress came by with another round and nicked the pint glass she’d been studying. Hermione blinked at her. She whisked it off with a weak smile that was supposed to be sympathetic but reeked of condescension. Of course. Celebrated war heroine, Golden cunt-ed Hermione Granger, drinking alone and excessively on a weekday. Right, well, _fuck_ her and her enormous, swinging tits in that too-tight jumper that made Hermione feel like a glorified bloke. She chucked the straw from the gin-and-something or the other and downed it clean. Some of it spilled down her chin and neck, and she dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. It tasted pithy with a dry tang that settled weightily in the back of her throat. She caught the waitresses’ wide eyes across the room and motioned for another with a lemony smile. Fuckyou.

“Granger,” someone said, and she flicked her eyes across, up, towards the familiar, grating drawl.

He was blurry around the edges, but it was him. Tall enough to block out some of the warm, piss-yellow light of the pub. Just her fucking luck. 

“Malfoy,” she nodded curtly. “Kindly sod off, will you?” 

“Charming,” his lips twitched, and she had to be absolutely sloshed, because it was almost like he was _teasing_ her. “This seat taken?” 

“Yes,” she lied. 

He took it, anyway, resting his drink on the table and leaning back in the spare chair that wasn’t meant for him, or anyone, knees parted in a gesture of loose, lazy confidence that pissed her off.

The problem with Draco Malfoy was that he wasn’t dead yet.

He’d somehow managed to survive the war, six months in Azkaban, two years of house arrest, what she guessed was surely a _myriad_ of suicide attempts, and here he was, eight years later—smirking across at her, chummy like. He was regularly in the tabloids, or so Ginny informed her over their fortnightly two-for-one cocktails, caught inebriated with his hand up the dress of a Beauxbatons’ heiress in Monaco or Berlin or Seoul. The boy was a registered slag. The Prophet painted him as quite the philanthropist, though, or some other nonsense rich purebred toffs often passed off as an occupation. It was a pity. Hermione knew he was clever, excitingly, nauseatingly so. He often chased her tail in exam results, trailing terribly close behind by a few measly marks. It’d driven him mad and filled her with silent, dull excitement. She hated to think of a brain like that going to waste, simmering away in a bubbling vat of absinthe and privilege and hallucinogenic potions. 

They’d bumped into each other a few times since Hogwarts and established a shaky truce, comprised mostly of uncomfortable silences and sorry attempts at conversation. A few months back, Hermione had heard from the cousin of a friend of a friend that he’d studied for his N.E.W.T.S in Azkaban. It was the sudden damp spot in her knickers that surprised her. And she thought, oh, I want to fuck the ferret, and promptly filed the thought away where she kept traumatic memories of Voldemort.

“What are we drinking?” he asked, looking amused. She was fairly certain she looked a right mess, hair irrefutable with mascara staining her undereyes. Her work clothes, a sensible blouse and pencil skirt, were rumpled and she guessed, stained, where she’d carelessly spilled portions of her drinks down herself.

“_I’m_ drinking alone,” she frowned. “Why are you dressed like that?” 

He wore a tailor-cut muggle tuxedo that stretched snug over his lithe, gangly body. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned, and his bowtie hung undone around the crisp white collar. His silver cufflinks of the Malfoy crest glinted in the shadowed corner of the pub and a matching family ring clanged against the glass of firewhiskey. Elitist twat, Hermione thought sombrely, mentally scheduling ten minutes, maximum, of hateful masturbation later tonight.

“I’m missing a wedding,” he said simply, and the waitress came back with fresh drinks. She lingered this time, smiling and leaning and flashing Malfoy a nice, perky shot down her shirt before asking _what he’d like tonight_. Hermione rolled her eyes as he played along.

“Oh,” she said when the girl finally left. “Whose?” 

Malfoy made a shruggy gesture and finished off his drink, “Mine.”

Hermione choked on an ice cube. It burned before it melted in her throat. It shouldn’t have come as such as surprise. Everyone her age was either getting married or popping out children, and pureblood arranged-marriages were common practices, even now—but, Malfoy? She thought of the girl that could retain his notoriously _short_ attention span.

She stared at him and he stared back, eyes glittering. “Sorry—_what_?”

“Mm,” he said and peered down at the lavish watch on his wrist. He had a light dusting of stubble that made his jaw look attractive. “I reckon they’ve noticed by now.”

“Hold on,” she said and closed her eyes, palm up, facing him. She took a sobering breath and rubbed her temples. “You mean to say, you’ve not—you’re _skiving_ off your wedding?”

He grinned. It softened his angular face. “I wouldn’t have put it as eloquently as that, but yes.”

“Malfoy, _no_,” she said, in that disapproving, motherly tone of hers that made him roll his eyes. 

“Forget it,” he went, shaking his head and leaning forward. “Tell me why you’re out getting bollocksed on a Thursday.” 

“I’m—that’s none of your business,” she said, haughtily with her nose wrinkling in distaste at the attention being swivelled round to her. Malfoy nodded, seeming appeased. 

“Right, well,” he went, pushing his chair back with a decisive screech. He stood and she craned her neck painfully to watch his face. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Wait. Don’t, you know,” she said without thinking. He looked down at her expectantly. Hermione flushed, sunk into her seat. “You know, don’t…”

At some point during her during her pitiful verbal elbows and arms, she wished someone’d point their wand her way and _Avada_ her. Put her out of the misery that was her drunken, slackened tongue. But Malfoy just nodded—short, like it was obvious and frivolous—and sat back down. 

“I won’t,” he said, and her neck got stupidly hot. He gestured for more drinks as a waitress walked past, his smirk criminal. The girl visibly blushed. Hermione averted her eyes. Her finger was tracing the rim of her glass.

“Still at the department of lost causes and futile outreach programmes?” he asked, smirking when she looked miffed. 

He’d been down at the offices—mind, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—a little while ago, having donated _generously_ to a bulk of their projects. He was on a private tour with her boss, who was stuck halfway up his pasty arse long after he’d gone, when she’d been cornered by them while making herself a well-deserved cuppa tea. Her boss, David, the stupid pillock, introduced them, missing the exchange of wary glances. Malfoy, out of politeness, had thrusted his hand out for hers to shake. She’d mirrored the movement, surging her hand forward, but she was holding her mug in that hand, the kitschy one with a cartoon of a cat that looked like Crookshanks, and the contents spilled over the rim and doused the front of his shirt with boiling hot tea. Malfoy hissed in expletives, David almost chundered in fear, and Hermione thought of finding a convenient roof to fling herself off of. She’d half-fixed it, admittedly preoccupied with determinedly ignoring David’s brownnosing glare, and Malfoy’s wand did the rest. Absently, she ran a hand down the front of his shirt, which likely cost more than her rent, to check for, stupidly, muggle-ly, dryness, and incidentally was the first time she’d touched him without giving him a bloody nose. Mortified, she’d rushed out of the tiny kitchenette, a touch rudely, without so much as looking at him.

“Have you gotten a real job, then, or are you still throwing your trust fund around and shagging rich bints?”

Malfoy placed a hand over his chest. He had long, thin piano-fingers. She imagined he played. “Reading up on me, Granger? I’m touched.” 

“Only the obituaries.” She replied, making a show of crossing her fingers. He chuckled.

The waitress from before brought more drinks he must’ve ordered. She didn’t remember letting him order for her. She didn’t remember what they’d been talking about, just now, either. Her head swam a little.

“Ron and I split up.” 

Pause. “Is that right?”

“Said we’d grown apart, _especially_ me.” Her tone was glib as she recited his words from earlier. She sniffed the drink Malfoy had ordered for her. Strong, medicinal. It burned on its way down. She shook her head, pursing her lips in disgust at the offending drink.

“And, you know what—we break up and it’s the first time in _months_ he’s been on my mind.” She laughed shortly, drily. Spat out the noise. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

When she looked at him, he was watching her carefully, something in his gaze making her nervous. He nodded, in agreement or dismissal, and tossed his drink back. His tongue wet his lips. When he spoke, it startled her out of watching his mouth.

“I think the wanker did you a favour.” 

She sighed, and without forethought, “Probably.”

The way it had worked with Ron was that it hadn’t. She’d always known that. Still, she felt an intense pang of guilt, a surge of relief, when he’d pointed it out. This past year, Hermione had been an actively, consciously shite girlfriend. It was spineless, cruel in a way that brought salty stinging behind her eyes, but the fear of hurting him had made her a bleeding coward.

“You don’t want to get married?” she asked, leaning forward onto the table. 

“Not particularly, no.”

His hand, resting on the side of his glass, was closer, now, more than halfway across the small wooden table. She rested her palm next to it. The air was hot and static there. She swallowed.

“Who was it?” 

“Astoria Greengrass. Daphne’s sister, you remember, two years below us at Hogwarts?” 

Hermione bobbed her head, an unclear, frayed memory of a shoot from _Witch Weekly_ showcasing the girl in luxurious silk robes. She had long, long legs and a thin nose.

“She’s beautiful,” she went, but didn’t know if it was encouraging or reprimanding in current circumstance.

His ring was icy as it skimmed the back of her hand. “She’s nice enough.” 

“Then—why _not_?”

Pause. Longer, this time.

“Do you ever think—surely, surely I’m dead and this is hell.” Malfoy said, laying his hands on the table. “A tedious, maddening sort-of hell. And it’s like this big, cosmic joke on me, because it _feels_ real. And every time I look at her, I think, Merlin, she’s in on it.”

Hermione’d propped her chin on her palm, eyes fixed on his. The sincerity surprised her. Sometimes, her mind wandered out of her body and watched her go through the motions, taking a shower, putting the kettle on, emptying the bins, like some sort of detached, bored voyeur. It was a comforting thought, to believe she wasn’t here. A psychiatrist once told her that victims of war often wished they hadn’t survived. 

Under the table, the side of her foot brushed against his knee. Instead of pulling it back, apologising, she let it rest there. She felt him lean into the contact. Her heart was racing.

“I tried to drown myself in the bath,” she told him, not sure why. “Just to see if I could.”

It was true, she did. It was a control thing. She had told herself it wouldn’t be hard. She’d hold her breath underwater, curl her fingers into fists and tuck her foot over the other to stifle the reflexive struggle. Once it was that, a challenge to herself, it was undeniable.

So, she’d breathed in deep and pursed her lips. Then, suddenly, she was submerging her head under water, waiting a beat, then two, then five. Her eyes screwed shut against the reality of what she was doing. How long had it been? She forgot to keep count. Her ears rang and sharp pain broke out just north of her brows. When her lungs screamed, out of air, she surged up out of the water. Her hair was heavy as it stuck to her back, weighing her down. When she gasped, a dry heave of air that burned the roof of her mouth, it was different. Sweeter. 

“Well,” he said casually, smirking. “There had to be _something_ you couldn’t do.”

She glared, but it was loose. In truth, she was relieved at his unconcerned reaction. 

“Not all of us are as _skilled_ in self-destruction.”

Malfoy laughed, short and condescending, “Really? Eight years settling for Weasley. Overqualified and under-appreciated at that miserable department when you should be Minister, by now. I’d say you have a professional grasp on it.” 

Hermione blinked, then again, bouncing back and forth between offended and flattered. He bit his cheek, watching her fiddle. 

Suddenly, an intrusive thought, weighted with an ethical, borderline-feminist guilt, “Am I supposed to tell you to go back to your fiancé?”

“I hope not. She’s terribly dull.” He smiled wryly. “I’d much rather be here.”

“Did you leave a note?” 

His eyes were dancing, “I couldn’t find a quill.”

“Your hand is on my knee.”

“Is it?” 

She didn’t dare move it. His hand was warm, soft, softer than she’d imagined. His thumb stroked the side of where her knee met her thigh, like he’d done it plenty before. She was sweating, now, feeling feverish and cramped in the overfilled pub. She reached over and finished off his drink, slamming it down and jostling the table.

“Malfoy, I—”

The waitress in the toddler-sized sweater materialised by their table, again. She collected the empty glasses and stroked Draco’s arm. Hermione’s shoulders hunched. She felt silly. Silly and drunk. She pulled her hands back and wrung them together under the table.

“Would you fuck off, darling?” he said, and her head snapped up to watch the waitress’s cheeks ruddy. Draco was looking right at Hermione, though, an intense way about his gaze that made her throat dry. Cum-on-me-tits scurried off, looking embarrassed. Hermione tried to hide her smile behind the fingers she pressed to her mouth.

“Go on, Granger, I’m on the edge of my seat.” 

There was a loud crash of glassware behind him, followed by mocking cheering and applause. Her gaze skittered towards the noise.

“Oh, my god.”

He turned to where she pointedly stared, “Oh, bloody fuck.” 

She picked her jaw back up with a sputtering noise as she watched Astoria Greengrass, in a wedding dress and fancy robes, no less, search through the crowds. She heaved her skirts up as she stormed through the stunned customers, little sparkling gems studding her intricate updo. She looked gorgeous. She looked _pissed_.

Draco stood smoothly but quickly, almost knocking the chair over. Hermione hoisted herself up, too, though her head spun at the hasty movement. 

He threw an obscene number of galleons onto the table and said, “That’ll be our cue,” before grabbing her hand, threading their fingers, and pulling her along behind him. He started to make for the door, but Hermione tugged him back, her head whirring.

“She’ll see us.” It struck her, that, _us_ and promptly sluiced off the way things did when you were drunk. 

“She will if we don’t get a move on,” he said impatiently, leading with his shoulder, side-on, through the throngs of drunk wizards and witches.

“Your hair isn’t exactly inconspicuous, Malfoy,” she hissed and pulled hard on his hand. He scoffed and began to say something about hers. “Come on, I think there’s a way out through the kitchen.” 

She dragged him the other way, Malfoy sparing a fearful look over his shoulder at his fiancé. He let her lead them out, muttering ‘bossy swot’ and earning an elbow to his stomach.

The exit pushed them out into a thin alley by the inn. The air was cool and heavy, a light drizzle soaking their hair. She was laughing dizzily, though she hadn’t the faintest idea why, as he pressed her against the side of the building, towering over her.

His hands cupped her cheeks and tilted her face up to his. He was smiling. Rain dropped from the limp tips of his hair onto the bridge of her nose.

“You’re in trouble,” she laughed, and tucked her lip beneath her teeth.

“I am,” he said honestly, eyes flicking to her mouth and back up. She wondered distantly if they were talking about different things. Her fingers had found themselves clutching the front of his quickly dampening shirt. She thought of the one she’d briefly soiled with hot tea.

When he kissed her, or _she_ kissed _him_, as she pulled him down by the back of his neck with an impatient sigh, the sky fell. 

Draco tensed, and for half of a moment she felt the full weight of regret of it all, but then he groaned against her lips, the kind of noise a man would make if he’d wandered the desert for months and finally, finally, found a stream, and she shuddered. His mouth was hot, burning, against hers and he tasted like firewhiskey and rain, buckets now, that drew out the mint and it was driving her _mad_. A gentle skim of his tongue against the seam of her mouth had her gasping, whimpering, and then his tongue licked at hers, his teeth grazing her bottom lip—and she thought, she thought, fuck, fuck, _Merlin_, I’ve never been kissed before now. The truth is, she had kissed Ron and Viktor and Harry—once, regrettably—but _this_—her hips surged forward, seeking friction—

He pulled back, catching her unfocused gaze. She was panting, staring helplessly into his dark, flashing eyes.

“Do you,” he started, his voice so hoarse it stuttered her pulse. She couldn’t look away. “Do you want to—?”

“No.”

He nodded, his eyes hardening, and pulled away. 

“Astoria will be looking for you. My flat would be more sensible.” 

“Fuck. I love when you talk dirty to me, Granger.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every week. Cheers to MadeupMeeple for looking over this for me. 
> 
> Comments deeply cherished.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You lot are absolutely fantastic. Thank you so much for all the love. Warning: This chapter is part-filthy, filthy smut, part-feeble plot. The next one is a lot more conversation, if you're into that sort of thing (I certainly am).

When Hermione apparated them back to her flat in Farringdon, she briefly registered how mental this was. But, then, _Godric_, Malfoy pulled her to him, one hand on the nape of her neck and the other on the small of her back, and the thought dissolved, as she careened into the touch, seeking out his mouth—into something that much resembled an _oh, fuck it_.

And when he pulled sharply on her hair and dragged his hot, wet mouth down the curve of her neck, all thought disappeared entirely.

“Nice place, Granger,” he murmured, the words vibrating against her, shooting tension south.

“You,” she was breathless, “You haven’t even looked at it.”

“I’m busy,” He replied, and _bit_ her.

She moaned and it was terribly loud, _Mm, Malfoy_, her eyes rolling back into her head as he sucked on her pulse point. He smirked. It’d bruise. Smug bastard.

They made quick work of their clothes, now left scattered across her living room floor. She almost tripped over her shoes. Laughed against his mouth. She felt his lips pull into a smile. It made her curl her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and kiss him keenly.

He picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, and carried her to the sofa. She was loud, so _loud_, when he ground his hard, hard cock through the scratchy fabric of his boxers and the thin cotton of her knickers—and Hermione felt like she’d been pushed off the roof of a building and was freefalling.

Setting her on the sofa, he knelt in front of her and tore her knickers away, making her gasp and sit upright. She tugged at his hair.

“Fuck, Granger,” his teeth ground together. “You’re _so_ fucking wet. Is this all for me?”

“Malfoy—” she said, but it came out a desperate whimper.

She wanted to squirm under the attention, but his hot breath against where she was most sensitive just arched her spine and curled her toes. _No one_ had—Ron had tried, but she didn’t let him, then, it’d felt too intimate, and he’d stopped trying entirely—

“Shut up, witch,” he growled, looking flushed and distraught and _ravishing_. And then. And then his mouth was on her cunt.

Her hands flew out to yank at locks of his hair, mussing it up and pushing his face closer to her soaking core because _oh my god_, that felt—_that felt_—

Hermione made a small, keening sound, when he slipped his tongue into her. He _hummed_ at her taste and the way _that_ felt almost, almost made her come immediately. She rolled her hips against his mouth, desperately, shamelessly, as he forced her closer, fingers digging into her thighs. Suddenly, he removed his tongue and sucked her clit into his mouth.

“Fuck, oh my god, please.” She cried, toes frantically scraping the floor. “Don’t stop, Malfoy.”

It was excruciating, his tongue. Mindless sounds spilled out of her mouth. She felt like she’d just taken a shitload of uppers, and was soaring, flying, her head tipped back to watch the ceiling rip open.

“_Salazar_, what the fuck.” He pulled back to murmur, sounding dazed and irritated. “You’re sweet as fucking honey.”

The filthy, filthy words sent long, radioactive spirals of pleasure through her. This was the sort of thing she imagined late at night, hands furiously rubbing her clit, biting her tongue so she didn’t say his wretched Sacred-Twenty-Eight name when she came, hard.

Gasping, she ground her hips brazenly against his mouth. “I’m going to…oh gods, yes, Malfoy—I need, I _need_—”

She didn’t know _what_ she needed, not even slightly, just _more_, more friction, but _he_ knew, Merlin bless him. His finger slid into her, long and slender and rough, curling _just_ right—his wonderful _mouth_—

She felt every inch of her freeze, clench—and break. She was dying. She was dying, she was dying. She was dead and this was heaven. Draco Malfoy, on his knees between her legs, licking her like she was a goddamn delicacy. A lifetime later, she floated back to earth, her head heavy and her eyes fluttering. She kissed him. It was intense, he tasted of her.

“Oh, my god.” She said, dumbly.

“Mm."

“I can’t believe—you’re _so_—” then, suddenly, the urge to repay the favour—and the realisation that she was about to commend _the_ Slytherin Snake on his skills of _eating her out_—filled her chest and mind and she shoved her hand into his boxers.

He groaned against her lips, a noise that went straight to her sore cunt, and he pulled at her wrist.

“No, Malfoy—I _want_ to.”

The truth, one that alarmed her, was that she really actually did.

Blowjobs had always been one of those things that Hermione felt she _should_ do. Something nice, generous, like dropping change in a busker’s guitar case at Waterloo or asking her colleagues for tea orders when she went to make one for herself. Hermione had a polite disposition. And blowjobs fell right under that, a well-mannered thing to do. She didn’t particularly like them. Cocks were aggressive and unpretty and she wasn’t convinced anyone outside of porn could actually deep-throat one, but she’d close her eyes and think of England and Ron would thankfully be done in thirty-ish seconds, grateful and a little ashamed after. But the idea of Draco Malfoy’s dick in her throat, his hands in her hair and senseless, dirty words falling from his lips as _she_ made _him_ come embarrassingly quick—it was rather enticing.

“Gods, witch,” he growled as she stroked him steady, his eyes rolling back. “Stop, I mean it. I won’t last two seconds in your mouth.”

The way he said it made her feel delirious. As if it was a weakness of his, as if _she_ was. She pulled him up, onto the sofa and swung her legs over his hips, straddling him. He looked at her with wide eyes, pupils blown, like she’d hung the moon earlier that day. She made a mental note to suck him off another time. _Another time?_

She admired the view for a blissful moment of self-indulgence. Tousled hair, swollen mouth, wet with her, Seeker build in nothing but boxers.

He smirked and collared her throat. Her bra was unsnapped, suddenly, thrown across the room, and then his cruel, devious mouth was on her tits, licking, sucking, _devouring_.

“Oh. Jesus—_fuck_, Malfoy,” she arched into his mouth, clutching at the back of his head.

“You’ve got such a dirty little mouth, Granger.” He said. “Tell me what you want.”

She couldn’t think. He felt _painfully_ hard where she needed him most, her naked and slick on his boxers. _Needed_. She’d never associated that word with sex, before. Maybe the alcohol had something to do with it, but that’s what it was, here, then. Pure, unadulterated need. Like she’d _die_ if he didn’t fuck her _right now_.

“I, _hnngh_…” his thumb flicked her nipple.

“Hm?” he teased.

“I, I don’t—you _know_.”

“Come on,” he mused, and she wanted to kill him. “Use that big, beautiful brain of yours and tell me what you want from me.”

Her fingers dug little crescent shaped scars into his shoulders, pushing him back. He leaned back, eyes raking over her. She caught his gaze, pursed her lips, ever the challenge-taker. 

“Would you please fuck me, Malfoy, _please_?”

He groaned, eyes flashing, kissing her hard. His hands braced on her thighs. “Where’s your bedroom—"

“I need it now,” she sounded wrecked.

“_Fuck_. Here?”

She nodded frantically, chewing her lip. “Please.”

She’d done him, he was utterly fucked. Here it was: the reason he’d die.

“Anything,” he said, and she didn’t get the chance to mull over the simple word, but it felt weighty, like a promise.

He pushed his boxers down and she, impatient, sunk onto his cock, not considering its size or how much it’d hurt to just _impale_ herself on, but, _Jesus Christ_, she threw her head back as he bottomed out and she moaned and he shouted out, because, _because_ _wow_.

He teethed her neck, sounding strained, “Granger, you feel—_fuck_, you fit like a glove.”

The words were like liquid silk and she whimpered at the truth in them. She was clenched tight around him, his cock reaching sensitive spots in her that made her see stars and galaxies behind closed eyelids.

“Please, please, please.” His breath hitched at her reckless begging, and then he pushed and pulled her over him, over his cock. She mewled and clutched his shoulders, riding him, faster and harder till it was brutal and enough and _right_.

Merlin above, he felt so fucking _exquisite_ inside her. So raw, possessive, like he was claiming a spot inside her.

“Oh gods, you feel so fucking good.” Draco rasped against her collarbone. His fist tightened at the back of her head, tilting her head back crudely as he bucked up into her. “I _knew_ you would, but _this_—"

Hermione cried out. The thought that he’d imagined this, them together, shot desire and deep, unspeakable longing through her. She met him thrust for thrust, clutching so tightly at his back she left thin ribbons of blood across it. His cock nudged a bundle of nerves deep inside her, pulsing, that made her almost combust.

“Yes, _oh_, right there. _Harder_, Draco.”

She felt him _twitch_ inside her.

“Say that again.” He demanded.

“Draco, _please_.”

He made a low, ruined sort-of noise; pressing his forehead into her clavicle, damp with a thin layer of sweat. His mouth caught onto a bouncing nipple as she fucked him.

“Again.”

She whimpered, fingers roughly gripping platinum locks and holding his head to her chest. Like reciting a prayer, she said his name, again and again. It drove him _insane_.

“Draco, _Draco_, I’m—I’m so close,” she said in a broken, miserable way.

It was all, all too much. She knew she’d feel the shadow of him in her for a long time. Tears welled in her eyes at how _brilliant_ it felt, at the promise of it lingering. 

“Fuck, yeah,” he breathed, his fingers slippery on her clit. “Come all over me, _Hermione_.” 

That was it. She stiffened, and white-hot light exploded out of her, consuming her, sucking her into a blissful abyss. He coerced noises from her that she didn’t even think she was capable of making. This was one of those moments she felt that she’d left her body entirely. But it was different, she felt like she’d ascended, the world falling away. She watched herself, bouncing on his cock, chasing her release, uninhibited with her hair wild and her little mouth parted in a silent moan, he couldn’t take it, he had _no_ chance—

His thrusts grew frantic. “Oh _gods_, I’m going to—Hermione—"

“Come in me,” she said thoughtlessly, clutching his shoulders. “Please, please come inside me, Draco.”

The words caught him off guard, and his release was instantaneous, almost _painful_—“what the _fuck_, Hermione”—and he bit her shoulder, hard, as he filled her, groaning against her skin. She shuddered and fell limp against him, another, smaller orgasm pulsing through her at the warm, slippery feel of his release. He had to look away from watching him leak out of her and drip down her thighs, it was devastating.

“Fucking _Merlin_,” he panted against her collarbone, the words slick over her damp skin. His fingertips skimmed her spine, and she whimpered, as if he was playing her like an instrument. She settled into him; her hair falling over his arm and her eyes fluttering shut. She wished she could distil what she was feeling into a vial and inject it directly into her veins.

He kissed across her shoulder, soft, gentle kisses that felt kind. She wasn’t entirely sure, mind hazy and euphoric, but she thought she heard him say: “I must be dead to have deserved this.”

*

Hermione woke the next morning with a splitting headache and an ache between her legs.

She wasn’t practised at recovering from hangovers, she rarely drank, but this felt worse than anything she could’ve imagined. Her eyes squinted to adjust to the light filling the room, sunrays from the curtained windows dancing on her ceiling. The digital clock on her bedside table read 08:45.

A pocket of pain was lodged in the back of her head, throbbing wildly, obnoxiously, calling attention to itself. Her calves were splintered when she stretched her legs. Her mouth felt dry and throat coarse, so when she noticed she was fully naked under the covers, her yelp of surprise was weak and painful. She shot up in bed and took in the state of her room. It looked fine, neat. _Particularly_ neat. Her clothes from yesterday were folded and left on the foot of the bed. Wait.

Her head spun with fragmented memories from the night before. Wild, uninhibited flashes of platinum hair between her fingers, him pushing her face-down onto her bed, then a warm, pink tongue on her base of her spine. A voice that sounded eerily like hers, though breathier and more desperate, rang in her ears, muffled like she’d heard it through the walls. _Draco, please, don’t stop._ Then Draco’s—_Draco?_—mouth against her ear, _fuck, Hermione, I can’t stop if I tried. _

“Oh my god,” she whispered into her hands. “Oh my god.”

Jesus Christ, she’d shagged Draco Malfoy. Twice. _Thrice_?

Her bed was empty where she looked over, terrified, between the gaps of her fingers. It felt cold, he’d probably snuck out while it was still dark. She was going to be sick. She knew, logically, it was for the best. Right? They were ridiculous, _sordid_. An abomination, of sorts. Right? The little person with the clipboard in her head—awake far too early for Hermione’s liking—told her it was what she’d wanted. Something crazy and impulsive and _deeply_ satisfying but temporary, fleeting. _Right_. And yet, she found herself violently wiping away idiotic tears and telling herself off for being so fucking stupid. Fuckhim, fuckhim, fuckhim.

There was ibuprofen in the kitchen. She’d take five, inform David that she was on her period, revel in his discomfort and hasty acceptance and nap for five hours. Then she’d order an indecent amount of curry and garlic naan from _Dehli Grill_ down the road and throw a series of darts at a picture of Malfoy she’d cut from a _Witch Weekly_ cover.

Hermione opened the door to her room, forgoing her robe but having put on some knickers, stepped into the rest of her flat, and _screamed_.

Draco sat at her small dining table in his smart trousers and nothing else, reading today’s _Daily Prophet_ and drinking occasionally from a steaming Holyhead Harpies cup. He looked up when she screeched and quirked an eyebrow like it was _his_ home and it was unusual for _her_ to be there. His eyes skimmed her naked body. It cowered in broad daylight and she slung an elbow across her bare chest.

“Malfoy!”

“Morning,” he said, smirking over the rim of his, _her_ mug. “Tea?”

“Oh _my god_.” she said and scrambled to find the nearest item of clothing. She grasped at a white garment draped over the back of one of the dining chairs and threw it on hastily. She buttoned it quickly, her back facing him as she hid her tits and her blush. It was his shirt, his _wedding_ shirt, and despite her drowning in it, the hem barely brushed her thighs. She turned to him, fingers yanking it down. He was looking at her the way in a way that felt familiar, now, after everything. She could’ve reached out and palmed the tension in the air between them. She felt sweat break out on the back of her knees and heat pool in her stomach. He hadn’t slinked out into the night, he’d stayed, he was _here_.

“Jesus Christ, Malfoy. What are you doing here?”

“_Malfoy_, is it?”

She looked decidedly at her toes, “That’s my mug.”

“That’s my shirt,” he told her, eyes raking over her legs. “But I’m far from complaining.”

“Stop it,” she said, slipping into the seat across from him. Happy to rob him of the easy view of the pathetic little thong she’d pulled on.

He grinned. She was so distinctly uncooperative. Bossy, swotty, unrelenting. She made him so _hard_. He pushed a matching mug, part of the pair, towards her end of the table.

Her knee shook under the table. It thumped against the underside of her round dining table once, twice. The details of why were hazy, but she was on edge. His presence alone did that. The fact that he’d stayed. For _her_?

“Harpies?”

“A gift. Ginny, she—”

“Chases. She’s good.”

Hermione lowered her eyes. A strange mix of surprise at him complimenting a Weasley and slight, shameful envy at the admiration in his voice. She curled her fingers around the mug, charmed to be kept hot for her, and took a sip to calm herself. It tasted strange, tangy in the way potions were, briefly sour before fading into the taste of the tea. She looked over at him suspiciously, her brows furrowing.

“Hangover potion,” he explained, amused at her scowl. “I make it myself. It’s very effective.”

And as he said it, her mind cleared up, kick-starting like it’d been jostled. She felt the pain ease and sighed appreciatively at the renewed energy seeping into her muscles like it’d been injected. While a pocket-hangover potion was an outright declaration of alcoholism, it was gratifying to know she hadn’t been wrong about his brain.

“You _made_ this?”

“Does that turn you on?” he asked, eyes narrowing playfully, knowing full well that it did. She decidedly looked away, but he’d spotted the redness in her cheeks and around the tips of her ears, the way she squeezed her thighs together and locked her ankles beneath the table.

“No.”

“You Gryffindors were always terrible liars,” he said. “Speaking of.”

He threw the paper towards her. It skidded across the table. Across the front page: **GOLDEN COUPLE SPLITS**, above an old photo of her and Ron from a few years ago. Ron, borderline showy about kissing a surprised Hermione, right in front of the swarm of relentless reporters. They’d argued about that little press gimmick, that’s what she’d called it, later that day.

“Jesus,” she picked up the paper, fisting it in her hands. “Already?”

He pushed his tongue into his cheek and watched her eyes flit over the page.

“Close, _personal_ sources? Sorry—'Hermione Granger…just not _wife_-material’. Are they fucking _serious_? How misogynistic, barbaric to, to, assign societal positions to women—one who saved the _bloody world_, thank you—”

“I see you haven’t let the fame get to your head,” he grinned.

“Oh, fuck off, Malfoy.” She threw him an angry glare before turning back to the paper and he got even harder. He had to shift in his seat.

“Do you think he leaked it?”

“Ron? No. He certainly enjoys the media attention, but no, he wouldn’t do that.” She flung the _Prophet_ back onto the table and sighed, exhausted. “It was Lavender Brown.” 

“Who?”

She smiled a small smile, appreciative. The bored, confused pull of his brows reassured her that he didn’t say it for her benefit.

“Ron’s ex from school. Well, sort-of. They had an affair last year.”

He blinked. “He cheated on you?”

“Once.”

“And you let him keep his balls?”

Hermione chewed the corner of her mouth. “He apologised for it. A lot. Molly even begged me to forgive him. But I didn’t mind, really. I think I emasculated him. I don’t blame him for it.”

“Interesting,” he murmured, palming the side of his jaw.

She shrugged. Her reaction had surprised the few people that knew. Ron himself had braced for impact, even tried to hide her wand when he told her. He had been very quiet and stumbled over his words. Hermione had stared at him for a long time after. Mostly, she was waiting for the bouts of fury, but they never came. Instead, she felt broadly indifferent.

They were always a clumsy, awkward couple in bed. Kissing Ron had been lovely and sweet. A reminder of simpler days when they harboured innocent crushes for each other, before their friends and families had died in front of them. Sex had been good, genuinely very nice, but she didn’t always finish or necessarily want to, only to prolong it. She knew, outside of that, she made him insecure. It was unintentional, almost like a prerequisite of being with the Brightest Witch of her age. For Ron, it had destroyed his self-worth. Every time she tutted, corrected him, or averted her eyes at something silly he’d said, he visibly crumbled. He couldn’t even get it up with her, after a point. She knew Lavender Brown would’ve made him feel like a man. Truthfully, she was glad for that. Hermione didn’t think that was her responsibility, anyway.

“Plus,” she said, “she has giant tits.”

Draco laughed, “Your tits are outstanding, Granger.”

She reddened, remembering all the things he’d done with his glorious tongue and teeth on her nipples, and met his very serious gaze.

“I thought you’d left. When I woke up.”

He inclined his head, “Would you have preferred that?” 

Hermione opened and closed her mouth a series of times. After a long, excruciating moment of loud silence, she slowly shook her head.

“Come here,” he rasped, and the air changed.

She made it around to his end of the table when he lifted her effortlessly onto it, her legs dangling from the edge. He gripped her hips, riding his shirt up on her small frame as he sunk into the space between her parted knees. He leaned closer but didn’t kiss her. His dark eyes traced her face, the desperation in the crease of her forehead, the slant of her mouth. She had her hands on his bare shoulders, applying pressure against the back of his neck.

“_Malfoy_,” she hissed, impatient. “Please.”

“Please, what?” he whispered, brushing his mouth ever-so-slightly against hers, pulling away before she could drag him closer. She made an irritated noise that made his mouth tilt up. He necked her jaw, featherlight against her skin, his hand cupping her face.

She puffed out a frustrated sigh, twisting her fingers into his hair. “Please. Please fucking kiss me, you insufferable prat.”

He chuckled lowly against her mouth before stealing her breath and all semblance of coherent thought his hangover potion had gifted her. She whimpered and clutched at his neck. He was such a skilful kisser, it felt unjust she had been robbed of kissing like _this_. She’d always found men to be too forthcoming with their tongues. It was always an unsurprising invasion when a greedy tongue shoved its way into her mouth. But Hermione found herself longing for the teasing strokes of Draco’s tongue. He worked her up just right. He pulled hard at her hair and she gasped into his mouth.

“You know,” he murmured, fingers skimming down the front of her, his, shirt. “I’m going to need this back.”

She pulled back and unbuttoned it entirely till it fell open. He suppressed his jaw from unhinging and clutched at the sides of his shirt, pulling them apart to stare at her body. 

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione.” he groaned and licked down her chest, a strong hand reaching up to thumb her nipple. Her head tipped back, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, twisting her feet behind him.

Her fingers carded through his hair, pulling sharply without thinking. When he groaned in surprise, then clutched her hips tighter and yanked her up against him, she made a mental note of it. Why? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter right now. He was kissing her again.

At the needy moan she placed on his tongue, he pulled back, making her make a whinier little noise of protest. He frowned at the watch on his wrist.

“I hate to do this,” he started, and her stomach dropped. “But I have to go.”

“Oh,” she said. “Right.”

He surely noticed the disappointment in her voice, but said nothing, sparing what was left of her dignity. She hopped off the table and shed his shirt. His eyes flicked over her naked chest before he took it.

She bit her mouth, _Accioing_ her robe and pulling it on in the chilly air of her flat. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she put the mugs into the sink and watched him button his shirt. The silence felt tense. She wanted to say something, something akin to _stay, please, I need more of whatever on earth this is_, but thought better of it.

“I have some pull over at the _Prophet_. I’ll get it redacted.” He secured his cufflinks and jutted his chin towards the newspaper. That explained, at least, why the runaway groom hadn’t occupied the front page.

She shook her head, “No, it’s fine. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Thank you, though.”

“Of course,” he said like he understood, and that was the end of it. He didn’t press it further or insist on some patronising white-knight-shit-housery disguised as chivalry. It was refreshing.

Despite being the most recognisable witch in the wizarding world, she sometimes felt she could avoid all the mansplaining suits by wearing a sandwich board with her name printed on it, for context.

He laced on his shoes and went to retrieve his blazer.

“Listen,” Draco said carefully, pushing his arms into his tuxedo jacket. “I have to go to mine, sort things out. Astoria will probably be there, and I reckon we’ll need to talk.”

“Right,” Hermione frowned. “You and Astoria, talking. Alone.”

He smirked, brows lifting, overall looking very self-satisfied. “You’re awfully sexy when you’re jealous.”

“I’m _not_ jealous.” She said, then, with a bitter taste in her mouth, “She’s your fiancé.”

He didn’t give her a chance to get in her own head about it. “Ex-fiancé. It was arranged.”

She hesitated a moment, then looked away.

“Have dinner with me.”

Hermione looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head, “What?”

“Tonight. I’ll pick you up at the Ministry. You get off at six?”

She swallowed. The weight of what she wanted settled on her shoulders, almost hunching her over. “It’ll be all over the papers by morning.”

He shook his head, waving off her words, “Come to mine, then. I’ll cook.”

“_You’ll_ cook?”

“The house elves will cook. I’ll diligently supervise.”

“Draco,” she winced. “What are we doing?”

“We can talk about it over dinner.”

“Talk,” she rolled the word around in her mouth.

“Yes, talk. I’ll behave.” He sighed and slipped his fingers into her hair, his palms kissing her jaw. “Come on, Granger. Don’t make me beg. I’ll donate half my family fortune to S.P.E.W. for you to say yes to a goddamn ministry-canteen panini.”

She blinked, brows joined together, “Why?”

“Don’t be daft,” He said simply, like it explained everything, or made sense of _anything_, and fleetingly pressed his mouth against her cheek. “Tonight, then. My Floo will be open.” 

He went over to her fireplace, tossed in the powder and then he was off. Hermione sucked in a long pull of air, having held her breath till now, and shook her head, her vision swimming.

She pushed her hair out of her face and watched the spot of empty air where he’d been. Her fingers pressed against her mouth and found it smiling. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments pay my bills, water my plants and strike for climate crisis.


End file.
